*Warning* Sentimental content. ;-)
I'm traditionally doing this for JFK, so I'm doing it for him, too:
Mentioning his birth- and death day observances in this blog - along with some personal thoughts.
Aldo Moro died today, 35 years ago, on may 9, 1978.
He was killed by the gunfire of his kidnapper.
I was 12 years old back then. It was a difficult time in my life, for I was in the middle of puberty which I hated and which I felt did came much too early.
My eyes opened toward the world and what they saw was ugly and frightening. It was the time of the left-extremist terrorism and the time of ongoing, reckless destruction of Nature .
I was a shy child and didn't talk much about my inner feelings that time.
I also remained mostly silent when the magazines and newspapers displayed the Photos of abducted Aldo Moro,
First, those showing him in captivity. There was this one where he still tries to smile:
I then thought in my silly mind that the whole thing was not that bad, that they (the terrorists) will treat him well. Would he smile otherwise?
I was deeply moved by his gentle face. How could you do any harm to this man? I was somehow confident they will release him, for life is just and would not permit any other outcome than Aldo Moro being free and happy for the rest of his days.
Then I saw the photo where he looks sore and traumatized and I understood that he was truly suffering.
And then in May, came the last one where he lays dead in the trunk of the car, surrounded by the people.
Magazines didn't bother about notions of decency back then. They would print double paged color photos of bleeding corpses after a terrorist shooting. Compared to that, the photo of dead Aldo was even pretty "harmless", for its not a "bloody" picture. The man seems to sleep. But it was everything but harmless to me.
Italy had played a big role in my childhood. We were often there. I knew that there were a lot of ugly things in Italian reality (Mafia, poverty, injustice...) but Italy was always something like a piece of paradise to me.
I remember my mother sighing: "Oh no, they killed Aldo Moro, he was such a good man. He cared for the poor."
I didn't had the words that would match my feelings. To the outside, I must have given the impression as if the whole affair was none of my concerns. That was wrong.
I went to realize that the world is a big pile of Crap. It's just not true that the good will always win. Cruelty and injustice win.
I know that if I've told my mother or my friends about my feelings, they would have comforted me. But I couldn't. I was speechless.
Today, 35 years later, Aldo Moro is mostly forgotten outside Italy. And I am recovering from being speechless.
The enchanted Italy of my childhood died together with Aldo Moro, that day.
Now, so many years later, every time I look at photos of him, It's as if I could see a faraway glow from that lost paradise, deep in his eyes. A sad greeting from a vanished world. This may be the reason why I try so hard to catch it with my pencils and colors.
...But just as the song says, I may as well as try to catch the wind.